He saw again, of prisoners in eternal agony, of judgment passed without appeal, and in that moment, something clicked within him.
It was not just a raw force the Chainlord wielded; it was will. His chains were not tools but commandments, and if Aelric could twist that command…
He clenched his fists. "Iron Bind–Override Protocol." The chains lashed out again, but this time, Aelric didn't aim for the body.
He aimed for the command. His shackles struck the Chainlord's own, and for the briefest moment, his skill clashed with an ancient directive: Obey me.
He pushed his will into it, injected the hunger of Gluttony, the pain of the Chainborn, the memory of bound souls crying for justice. The links screamed.
And then snapped, the Chainlord staggered. Aelric sprinted up the creature's shifting form, leaping from one massive arm to the other, using the swinging chains as platforms.
Each step sent burning pain up his legs; his body wasn't built for this scale of movement, but he didn't stop.
He reached the Chainlord's head. Drove his fist forward, flaring Devourer's Maw. Black energy pressed into the demon's skull.
Aelric screamed as his essence touched the Chainlord's; the visions exploded across his mind.
He saw the demon's origin, a fragment of divine punishment made manifest, a being created to enforce laws written in suffering.
He could feel himself unraveling. The Voice screamed through the void.
[WARNING! WARNING! WITHDRAW IMMEDIATELY! Otherwise, it will consume you whole!]
Aelric let go. He fell from the Chainlord's head and landed hard. He rolled, coughing blood, muscles twitching from strain.
The dome of chains began to falter, unraveling like ribbon. The Chainlord knelt before him.
"YOU…HAVE SURVIVED THE TRIAL. YOU CARRY A NEW LAW."
The towering figure slammed a closed fist against the ground. The ground cracked open, revealing an ancient mark, a sigil of the Wastes.
"THE LORD'S WILL KNOW YOUR NAME. THE WAR IS AWAKENING."
The arena vanished. Aelric collapsed into the dust. His arms trembled. His shackles shimmered with new etchings, the fragments of command, stolen from the Chainlord's dominion.
His skin bore faint burns from raw power, but he was still alive. Veyra approached, offering her hand.
"What did you take from him?"
Aelric smiled faintly, even through the pain.
"A way to make my chains obey me…and a reason for them to fear me."
In the distance, the sky rippled with the tolling of ancient bells. The warlords had felt the blow, and now they are all watching.
Even since the Trail of the Chainlord, the land itself seemed to whisper louder, the winds carrying not just dust and ash, but an intent.
Word has spread like rot through flesh; a mortal had bested a Chainlord, shattered the sacred duel, and walked away bearing command etched into forged shackles.
Aelric's name hadn't just been whispered. It has been recorded, branded into the skin of the Second layer.
The Voice confirmed it as they moved through the scarred canyons of chin-strewn rock.
[You have become a fault line in this layer's foundation. That trial was not just a test; it was a broadcast.]
Aelric marched forward without looking back, but his jaw tightened. "So now I am being hunted."
[No] said the Voice. [Now you are wanted.]
'Both are the same,' he sighed.
They reached the spire of Hooks by duskfall, irbahat passed for dusk in the Abyss. There was no sun, only the heavy presence of a red black veil above, rippling like a burning sea overhead.
The spire wasn't made of stone or wood, but a complete spiraling mass of impaled creatures, all arranged as if screaming towards the sky, their mouths filled with iron vows.
Aelric had tracked the signal from the dying Chainlord here. The pulse of power was paint but traceable, and had led him into this best of silence and ritual.
Veyra walked at his side, gaze darting across the skeletal pillars. She seemed more on edge than usual.
"Are you sure about this?" She asked quietly.
"No," Aelric replied. "But I need answers and options."
The Voice chimed in. [Then listen and choose wisely.]
At the heart of the spire, they found the emissaries.
Three figures standing tall. Each cloaked in the colors of their kind. Each carrying a presence so distinct it felt like standing between. Storms are opposing weather.
The first was armored in jagged metal scraps fused to his flesh, a war priest of the Chainlord's, known only as Vorrik, the Crucible's Fang.
He did not bow or even acknowledge Aelric, merely stared with molten eyes that gleamed behind his helm.
"You dishonored a duel of dominion," Vorrik growled. "And claimed power without allegiance. That makes you nothing but a thief and a pretender."
Next to him stood a demon in flowing grey robes, her skin cracked like dried clay, her eyes a glowing amber fire that never blinked.
She was Ashira, an emissary of the Ashen Pact, her expression poised somewhere between amusement and academic interest.
"You didn't dishonor anything," she countered. "You just broke a cycle. That makes you useful for now."
Lastly, in shadow and silence, stood a figure that radiated hunger. No flesh remained, only a stretched membrane of withered essence wrapped around bone and stitched symbols.
It pulsed as though alive, though it made no sound. This one did not speak in words, but in a whisper felt inside the head. A Devourer Cult emissary. Known only as the Empty Tongue.
Aelric felt it immediately, an irresistible pull. That thing knew Gluttony. It tasted the evolution inside him, the mutation brought about by the Devourer's Maw.
It perhaps recognized him as a king and perhaps as a rival. Ashira spoke first.
"The Warlords of this layer are fracturing. The Chainlords are losing territory. The Pact wants change. And the Cult.." She glanced towards the Empty Tongue. "Wants everything to consume itself."
Vorrik's voice cut through the quiet. "You are not one of us. But we can offer you absolution. Bend the knee, and the Chainlord's will train you. We will teach you how to forge chains that command empires."